Alaskan Rescue: The Story of The Fischbach Brothers
by The Awesomer
Summary: Mark shows up at Eris' apartment—a Canadian studying abroad in America. He claims men shot him, and framed him as a fugitive. They also kidnapped his brother—Thomas—their only clue being a road leading to Alaska. Nowhere is safe; With the help of Eris, he must rescue Thomas before they get captured by the FBI for their crimes... or finished off by the strange men following them...


**Hey, guys!**

**I'm pre-writing the chapters for ****_Faded Gold_****, and since I already have all the chapters for my next story, I thought I should give you all a sneak peek while you guys waited for ****_Faded Gold_**** to be finished up.**

**Enjoy, guys!**

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><p><strong>Heheheh... Funny story, before I start this.<strong>

**I was editing this in the fan fiction doc-manager, to make it really good, and I was about ready to post this, and before I could save it, my computer decided to be like: **_**FUCK**** IT!**_**And it told me that the browser window had closed, and all unsaved data was lost.**

**So I lost everything I edited on this thing.**

**But I re-wrote it (though a bit lazily).**

**But it was a pain in the ass.**

**...**

**Just thought I'd share that with you guys.**

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><p>Eris POV—<p>

I'd say I had an ordinary life.

I grew up in the Yukon province of Canada, and moved to America for school. I went to the Athens University in Alabama for college; I studied health science with chemistry for a minor, and I hoped I could soon work with medicine and maybe write a book when I finished. I reserved money for tuition and expensive-ass books, finished my homework and projects on time, and did the extra-credit homework when I was free.

I lived with a roommate in a shitty one-story apartment building with cheap rent. I paid my bills on time, worked at an okay retail store for my current job, and worked with martial arts every weekend and Wednesday nights. I liked the single-life, with little debt, little worries, and not much to worry about aside from school projects and homework.

A simple life, led by a simple girl, with simple dreams.

But nearly everything I had was all thrown out the window when I met the Fischbach brothers.

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><p>A night of Netflix streaming and burnt popcorn. A cold, Alabaman winter night with snow drifting through the midnight air. A lonely night with Mel Brooks movies and an empty apartment. A night with fleece pajamas and green slippers. The third night of Christmas Break.<p>

That was how I would describe the night nearly everything changed.

The blinking apartment light glowed a soft orange color overhead, lighting up the poorly renovated living room/kitchen/bedroom/dance studio (at least according to my roommate, whom was out-of-town for Christmas). We didn't live in a very... ah... _privileged_ neighborhood. There was often broken glass and joint-butts lying on the ground outside, and the occasional Cuban-cigar dealer would wander to our apartment door nightly to offer us a deal. Though we didn't let them in, another rodent would sneak in after they left; mice. Those little assholes loved our shit hole of a one-story apartment, often scurrying through our walls at night with their tiny claws dragging across the dry wall when they crawled up into our cabinets. The blankets we had fashioned into curtains over our newly replaced windows (long story) let out tiny slivers of a pale white glow, showing off the fact that—surprisingly—winters in Alabama could be brutal.

Our tiny salvaged LCD TV played a rerun of "_Robin Hood: Men in Tights,_" flashing an image of my favorite part: Mark Blankfield playing the blind servant, claiming he could finally see before he ran straight into a tree. I had stopped paying attention to the movie a while ago, mainly because I knew the movie by heart now, including both of the songs and dances there were. Still letting the movie play, I switched my interest from the Mel Brooks flick to my forest-green slippers as they slapped against the bottom of my feet when I wiggled them; _flap-flop-flap-flop._

I shifted my attention again to the flickering overhead light, my gaze landing on a grey moth that had sought out refuge from the cold of the outside to the soft orange lightbulb. It fluttered and bumped its head against the glass bulb, trying desperately to reach the light; unable to land because of the burning heat of the glass.

I closed my eyes, starting to doze off.

...

_..._

_Knock, knock._

I roused from my sleep, regaining my attention enough to realized someone had knocked at the door this late at night. I looked at the TV, noting how the credits were already rolling. I had slept for a little bit.

I closed my eyes again, thinking that the person who knocked was just another cigar-dealer. If I just ignored it, he would probably go away.

_Knock knock!_

I groaned out loud enough for whoever was at the door to hear, "Go away, _Jeff!_ I'm not interested in buying your fucking cigars!"

...

...

...

_Knockknockknockknockknockknockknockknockknock!_

"AL_RIGHT! _I'M _UP!"_ I shouted angrily, swinging my legs off the couch and stretching my lower back, which had gained a few uncomfortable cricks from my quick nap. I watched as a few popcorn kernel shells that I hadn't eaten that day fell to the ground from my sleep-shirt, like scales of golden sunshine. Reaching for the small rope-spool-table, I plucked my 3.5 prescription glasses from next to the plate of half-eaten Oreo cookies and pushed them on my face, clearing up my terrible vision.

My green slippers made a _slap-slap!_ sound across the floor as I shuffled to the door, grumbling about the stupid Cuban cigar dealers and their deal with only trading at night. I ran a hand quickly through my hair to make it look as if I were a respectable human being, and put one of my eyes against the peephole we had installed in our door. Through the yellow light of the only functioning street lamp on our street, and through the heavy snowfall, I saw the silhouette of a man.

_KNOCKKNOCKKNOCKKNOCKKNOCKKKNOCK!_

He looked a few years older than me, but not by much. Maybe around 25 or so, but he was short for his age. But he apparently made up for it in muscle and... an interesting choice of wardrobe. Despite the cold blizzard tonight, he wore cargo shorts and a short-sleeved t-shirt with a faded image of a pink mustache. Goosebumps were on his skin, pale and shivering. His obsidian-black hair was shaggy and caked with dirt and sweat, falling just over his left eye. Frameless square prescription glasses sat haphazardly perched on his nose, covering up his coffee-brown eyes. On his right cheek, a long, still-bleeding cut ran from the corner of his eye to his jaw line. I was about to lock the door and go away, thinking this guy was another druggie.

But then I noticed his wounds.

With his left hand, he clutched a slash-mark that had passed through his t-shirt and went into his chest and abdomen, scarlet blood dribbling down his cold fingers in little rivers. His left leg had three wounds no larger than the width of my thumb; one on his thigh, and the other two in his calf, giant rivers of blood seeping down his leg and into the clean white snow. There were bloody handprints on his leg just over the wounds, which did show that the man did try to staunch the bleeding with his other hand.

_KNOCKKNOCKKNOCKKNOCKKNOCKKNOCKKNOCKKNOCK!_ This man used his right hand to knock on the door. It was completely smeared with his blood, small crimson droplets splattering on my door each time he banged at my apartment.

"STOP KNOCKING!" I shouted angrily, sure this guy was a drug dealer that hadn't done the rounds he had been supposed to do. Maybe that's why he was injured. "I'll call the cops!"

The man's eyes widened. "N—No! Please! I need help! I'm bleeding, and I don't think I can last long!" His voice was slurred slightly and tired, like he had run a long time without sleep. Maybe that was due to blood loss.

"Call a fucking ambulance!"

The man swayed slightly, his eyes drooping a little bit. "I... I can't..."

"Why?" I demanded, a little ticked off.

"Because... I... ca..." The man staggered dangerously on his left leg, suddenly yelping from putting pressure on his bad leg. "The... po..."

I set my jaw. I wanted to let this guy in, so I could at least sit him down and call 911, but I was sure he was gonna kill me if I did opened the door.

"Do you have any weapons?" I demanded against my better judgement.

The man shook his head dazedly. "...no... weap..." He leaned against my door and closed his eyes, shivering badly. "...so... cold..."

The man looked back at the door, his eyes dark and pleading. His entire frame shook with gooseflesh. "Plea...se... I need... help..."

I hesitated thinking of all the situations that could happen. This guy could stab me. Or he could strangle me. Or break my neck. But against my better judgement, I felt some kind of... maternal protection for this man. Even if he did try anything, he lost a lot of blood, and there was no way he could do anything bad to me.

I sighed, deciding I could at least stop the bleeding before I called the cops. I said. "Get off my door, and I'll let you in."

The man staggered away from my door, and I undid my lock. Turning the handle, I hesitated one more time before I opened it. "Come in."

A cold wind forced its way into my apartment, taking the man with it. He limped in slowly, like his limbs were stiff and frozen. I expected blood to drip all over the floor, but there wasn't a single drop on the ground as he stumbled in. It didn't take me long to realize his blood had literally _frozen_ in what little time he was out there.

I closed the door and looked at the man, who had suddenly collapsed to the floor on his hands and knees. He shook with cold, barely able to struggle out a sentence: "...tha... thank... ank... y... yo..."

"Not yet," I said, grabbing a blanket from one of my windows and tossing it over the man. I gingerly grabbed his left arm and lifted him up, supporting all his weight. He yelped out in pain, and tears of suffering fell from his eyes and on the lenses of his glasses. Looking closely at his face, I could see the dark, sleepless bags under his eyes, revealing that this man probably hasn't slept in days.

I dragged the man to my crappy leather couch and set him down, watching as he panted in exhaustion even though I did all the work. His face tightened with pain as he clutched at the blanket I had given him as a reflex. "Gah! It... _hurts!_"

"I've noticed," I replied with slight sarcasm.

I walked away to grab one of my many hidden first-aid kits (again, we didn't exactly live in a nice neighborhood), and pulled out a bottle of hydrogen peroxide. Sitting next to the man, I pulled out a small dishtowel from the kid and dropped some of the hydrogen peroxide on it. I needed to clean his wounds first. I looked the man in the eye. "You're _so_ lucky I decided to let you in.

"What... t's... tha...?" the man asked, still dazed.

I pulled up the blanket to reveal the man's left leg. I looked at him. "You're gonna hate me, but hold still."

The man raised an eyebrow, but didn't protest. I took a deep breath, and started dabbing the dishtowel on the wound on the man's thigh.

"Oh..." the man said, closing his eyes. "That... feels..."

He suddenly jerked up, slamming his fist on the arm of the couch. "HOLY FUCKING SHIT! THAT _HURTS_ LIKE _DICK!_" he shrilled.

"Told ya."

The man kicked his leg, only to shout out in pain a second later. "AH, FUCKING ****!" **(A/N: If you guys haven't known before, there's one word I won't put down in my stories. You guys will probably figure that out on your own.)**

"Oy! No need for that word!" I scolded. "And don't kick, or you'll make it worse!"

The man ground his teeth. His face seemed to regain a tiny-bit of color from the heat of my apartment. "How... do you... know!?" he demanded.

"I study health sciences at Athens," I shrugged. "I at least have an idea of what I'm doing."

I sighed, dabbing at the now-bleeding wound again. "Now, unless you want several infected, festering wounds in your body, I would suggest you _try_ to hold still."

The man nodded, new tears streaking his cheeks. "I... I'm... _ow!_... Mark..."

I put down the dishtowel and peeled open a paper-wrapped gauze pad, putting a little peroxide on the pad. "Mark? What's your last name?"

The man—Mark—let out another cry as I placed the peroxide-gauze pad on his leg, swallowing hard before answering with a croak: "Fischbach."

Mark Fischbach. I paused with a roll of medical tape in my hand. "Fischbach? Like... the author of TwoKinds?"

More tears filled Mark's eyes, but they weren't from pain. "No. That's my brother, Thomas. I'm Mark. I play video games on YouTube."

I twisted my mouth into a frown. I remembered Mark. His internet persona was _Markiplier_, from Cincinnati, Ohio. I used to watch him before I moved to America for school. Afterwards, I just... didn't have the time to watch anything on YouTube. I was mostly on the internet for research.

"Oh, right," I said, dabbing the dishtowel with the disinfectant. "Aren't you supposed to be in... Cincinnati?"

Mark shook his head, grinding his teeth as I dabbed the towel on one of the wounds on his calf. "I moved to L.A. a while back, but that's not the point."

I paused again, the towel lingering too long on Mark's wound. He gasped in pain, and I pulled the towel off. "But... that's all the way in California. What are you doing here in Alabama?"

Mark didn't answer. He shifted his gaze to the TV. "Hey. You got _Robin__ Hood!_ Cool!"

I pushed the dishtowel harshly against his leg, and he jumped in surprise and pain. "You didn't answer my question," I reminded him. "If you can't tell me what you're doing here, I'm calling the cops," I threatened.

Mark gulped, his eyes widening. "It's... a long story. Please, can you just finish torturing me first? Please?"

I growled slightly. "Fine. I'm tired anyways. But when I finish, I'm calling the hospital to pick you up."

"No! Don't!"

"Oh, ho, ho!" I said, grinning maliciously at Mark. "What's the matter, Mark? Are you in trouble with the law?"

Mark ground his teeth. "No. Nothing like that. Just... well... I don't really know."

I cocked my head as I replaced my bloody dishtowel with a clean one. "What did you do?" I asked, now curious with what was happening.

Mark didn't even react when I put the new peroxide-drenched dishtowel against his wound. He sighed and looked at me with bloodshot eyes. "Do you want the full version, or should I give you the gist?"

"The gist," I decided. "If I'm satisfied, we'll wait until tomorrow morning to hear the full version."

"Is this like a sick game to you? You listen to someone's stories, and if you like it, you don't call the cops?" Mark asked, sounding a little ticked off.

"No. This is just interesting."

Mark took a deep breath, biting his lip. "There are these guys chasing me, and they shot me in my leg and slashed my face and chest, like they were aiming for a major artery. It was... pretty fucking obvious they wanted to kill me."

Mark scratched his head, thinking. "I don't know exactly what happened next. _Maybe_ I passed out from blood loss, or I got _really_ fucking woozy from the experience. Either way, I got away somehow, and woke up in front of your house."

I rolled my eyes as I wiped some of the blood from Mark's wound. It didn't really sound believable, unless he elaborated a bit. I looked him in the eye. "If they shot you, then where are the exit wounds?"

Mark shrugged, closing his eyes. "Beats me. Maybe they got lodged in there."

"Uh-huh," I said. "In that case, you're gonna have a festering internal infection.

I continued drilling for questions: "Did they have a reason that you know of?"

Mark nodded grimly. "Yeah. A pretty big one."

Mark walked into that sentence, and I couldn't help myself: "That's what she said," I said with a dumb grin.

Mark opened his eyes. "Really?" he demanded, giving me a look. "That was the worst '_That's What She Said'_ joke I've ever heard in my life. Was that necessary?"

"Yes. Yes it was."

Mark and I laughed, and he cocked his head when we finished, suddenly struck with curiosity. "I didn't get your name."

I hesitated, already questioning my mental health. Here was Mark Fischbach—a man who was supposed to be in his room back in L.A. screaming into his camera so he could put it on YouTube—on my couch, bleeding and injured, who may be just a psychopath about to kill me. He was trying to socialize with me, which was already strange enough with him here. I couldn't help but think of those weird fanfictions where this situation would fit in; Mark shows up on someone's doorstep and asks for something, and the hopeless girl inside fauns over him like he was a fallen god from the heavens above. Then it turned into a porno.

I shivered at the last thought.

_Geez,_ I thought, chiding myself slightly. _It's like I'm gonna suddenly get that mental disorder where people fall in love with their kidnappers or something like that. What is it called? Stockholm syndrome?_

My face tightened into a frown, still questioning my sanity as I finally muttered quietly: "Eris."

Mark raised an eyebrow a ever so slightly, a movement so small you would've missed it if you blinked. "_Eris?_ Like, the Greek goddess of discord?"

I nodded, still reluctant as I elaborated on Mark's questions. "Kinda matches up with my family's personality, if you ever meet them."

Mark looked at me, an eyebrow raised slightly. "Where does your family live?" he asked.

I pursed my lips, handing him the dishtowel so he could clean his hands. "The Yukon province."

"Oh!" Mark gave me a mischievous smile, like that of a cheesy clown. "You're Canadian! Is that why you let me in your house, or why you're cleaning my injuries?"

I paused, giving Mark a hateful look. "Are you calling me... _polite?_"

"Yeah!"

With a playful scowl on my face, I completely drenched my second gauze pad with hydrogen peroxide before pressing it against Mark's leg. I secured it quickly with medical tape before grinning as he slammed his fist on the couch again. "Don't fall for those stereotypes, friend," I said through my smiling teeth. "My family isn't exactly... _polite._ We have pride in ourselves, and we can fuck people up."

Mark gasped and repressed the impulse to kick his leg before saying: "You... _really_ live up to your name."

"I'll take that as a compliment," I decided. "Now, hold still."

Mark remained silent as I continued to clean his leg, and I didn't egg for him to tell me the rest of the story. Though it sounded interesting, it could wait until tomorrow, and I had a feeling that it wasn't exactly the truth. Maybe it was a coverup because he did something stupid. Nonetheless, I would honor his wish, and wouldn't call and ambulance tomorrow unless I really needed to.

Evaluating his other wounds before I patched up his leg, I discovered the slash marks on his cheek and chest had stopped bleeding and formed itself a make-shift cast; the blood had turned into a gummy-texture, and the cut on his chest had dried with bits of cloth from his t-shirt with it to help stop the flow of blood. His chest would need stitches, but that could wait until tomorrow. He didn't appear to have a fever, or frost-bite anywhere, but he was probably developing a minor case of hypothermia. That could be fixed tomorrow. In the mean time, it was late, and I would finish Mark's leg so I could go to bed (even though Mark looked like he needed it more than I did).

I just was about to put the gauze pad over Mark's final wound before I noticed something like a... _glint_ in his leg.

I furrowed my eyebrows. There was something obviously lodged in his muscle, and it shined through his blood with a brass-like color. "Hey... you know you have something in your leg, right?"

Mark opened his eyes. He had dozed off while I finished helping him. "Really?"

I nodded, cocking my head in confusion. "Maybe some... shrapnel of some kind? It definitely like metal."

Mark's eyes widened, and he started to grit his teeth. "I'm guessing...?"

Nodding only slightly, I reached into the first-aid kit and pulled out a pair of silver tweezers, starting to wipe it down with peroxide. "This is gonna hurt even more than before. Just... don't kick my face."

Sparing you from the gruesome details, and screaming, and everything like that, we discovered, that it wasn't just shrapnel, but it was a brass cylinder no thicker than the width of my thumb, with a cone at its top so it was aerodynamic. It didn't take a rocket scientist to guess that upon impact on Mark's leg, it collapsed on itself slightly.

Mark looked like he was trying to swallow a golf ball. "What... _is_ that?"

I used the peroxide-covered cloth to clean off the piece of brass, only to realize that it was something even more shocking. "Shouldn't you know, Mark?"

Mark shook his head.

"Didn't you say those guys shot at you?"

Mark's eyes widened at the realization. "It's... it's a bullet?"

Mark and I met eyes, and we nodded grimly. I was still in shock slightly, as I placed the brass bullet on the rope-spool coffee table.

"You weren't lying..." I said quietly. "...were you, Mark?"

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><p><strong>Boom! That's all you get for now! That's only <em>half<em> of the first chapter, and more is coming!**

**Also, a few side-notes: I put this in the _Amnesia: Dark Descent _category because... that was the best I could do. And I DEFINITELY need a better title for this story, so if you can, please put your suggestions in the review box! 'preciate it!**

**A final salute, and I'll see you soon! I'm The Awesomer, signing out, for now!**

**-The Awesomer**


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